This is my letter to the world…

Main Menu

The Artist Starving

As by some enigmatic organ, she transmutes the notes of a ukelele into food, like a shrub its chlorophyll, like St. Monica her eucharist.

She feels the muscle of her sphincter twist shut, and there’s a stasis in her stomach, as if the last meal she ate were a television-screen-at-5am. The hell of her underworld has frozen over, you see. That’s why her eyes have an eerie sparkle and her hair floats radioactively around her face. The colors of hunger are blood, glass, and lemon juice. Her wounds are closing, the wrinkles around her wrist scars and ring finger smoothing over, she can sleep at night.

The moon doesn’t need to wear that ugly green grease paint. Having consumed consumption, the air smells of angel feathers or lime sherbert, whichever you prefer. She learns that the darkness has a heartbeat, a phantom tiger’s pulse. Eine kleine nachtmusik, she places her ear to the cool, sweating lips of the mirror: “Come here, closer to me, oh lost girl. Let me show you what you will learn to love: the desert, and cicadas, and bald afternoons; the huge cavities of the galaxy; the minute and immeasurable gaps; the suppression of that which obsesses you; the denial of the lover knocking at your door; the gigantic bones of dinosaurs, and tears that flow into an unsettling sea; mayflies that ascend starving into the perfect heavens and fuck with the pure, ecstatic vision of an epileptic.

And you shall reject the dynamic dynamism of the capital, altered alterations. Watch your digestive engine howl all it wants in that bottle you have used to seal it. There’s a starfish which you will love, the way it regurgitates its gurgitation, and heals from any hurt; the unbridgeable, immutable vacancies of the galaxy; the deserts uninhabited except by still night and the moon; the gaps you cannot fill; colossal skulls that seem to be the huts for women who weep about their dead god and won’t stop; tears that burn down to crystals we gather for the market; and all grotesque but misunderstood beetles, victims of their own heightened senses.

And that is why we are couched upon these whelk shells, oh un-nourished brat, gifted but geas-ed, quietly keyboarding in a room festooned with tired sequins, with transcendent ashes, with the immortal death of all flesh.